


Your Sins Into Me

by Phoenixx



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood, Blue Hawke, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cussing, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protective Siblings, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sibling Love, Slow Burn, Templars (Dragon Age), The Chantry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-02-23 22:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13199823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixx/pseuds/Phoenixx
Summary: Genevieve Hawke: soldier in the Ferelden army, older sister, loving daughter. She was also devoted to her family, her country, and the Maker. What happens when she meets Sebastian Vael, an exiled prince and Brother of the Chantry?NOTE: Rated E for later chapters. "Graphic depictions of violence" apply to later chapters only.





	1. Only Then I Am Human

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first posted Dragon Age fic! This fic will be focused on Genevieve Hawke, a religious warrior whose move to Kirkwall shakes her faith in both herself and the Maker. During her stay, she meets Sebastian Vael, who challenges her emotionally and spiritually to find her way. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic. I am not sure how often I'll be posting chapters, but I'd like to post more often than not. You can find me on Tumblr (astralraindrops) and kick me if I haven't posted in a while.

It was nearly dark when Genevieve Hawke climbed the hill near their house, on the outskirts of Lothering. She sat lazily on the grass, rolling her shoulders to work out the kinks. Wearing heavy armor, even during drills, physically taxed the body, and she was glad to finally be free of its confinement. Tomorrow, she and her younger brother were off to Ostagar, to join the bulk of the army in their fight against the Darkspawn.

She watched the sun set over the Chantry in Lothering, the warm skies silhouetting the impressive building. She hugged her knees, smiling at the beautiful sight as she rested her chin on her knees. Sitting here reminded her of playing tag with Bethany and Carver when they were all young, right here on this very hill. Too many times had Carver knocked her to the ground when he finally caught her, and the pair would wrestle in the dirt while Bethany threw mud pies at them. But then they discovered that Bethany had magic, and Leandra had forbidden them from playing out in the open ever again.

Genevieve was absentmindedly pulling up blades of grass when she heard a distinct crunch to her left. She glanced over to see Carver at the foot of the hill, shielding his eyes from the sunset as he looked up at his older sister. 

“Well hello there,” Genevieve smiled, motioning for him to join her.

He settled in next to her, his gaze fixated on the sunset as he spoke. “So. Tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, picking some dirt from her fingernail with her thumb.

“Do you think mother and Bethany will be okay?”

“Of course, they will be. Bethany won’t let anything happen to mother, and Bethany is tough. She’ll be more than okay.”

Carver didn’t seem to like this answer. “I meant the templars. Do you think they – Bethany – will be okay on her own, with templars running about?”

Genevieve furrowed her eyebrows as she looked at her younger brother. “Why don’t you have some faith in her? She may be a mage, but she’s Bethany. We’ve been doing this our whole lives. I think she knows what she’s doing.”

Carver exhaled slowly, adverting his eyes instead to Genevieve. His eyes traced her soft brown curls. “You’re going to want to cut that before we get to Ostagar. I don’t think long hair is battle-worthy,” he said, changing the subject.

Genevieve smirked as she ran her fingers through her tresses. “Should I hack it off with a sword? You know, get some practice in?”

Carver snorted. “That’s one way to do it I suppose.”

A comfortable silence fell between them, a silence that spoke of understanding and warmth. A silence that spoke of inseparable siblings and comfortable surroundings. 

A silence that would soon be broken.

It was Genevieve who spoke first. “I…”

“Yeah,” Carver said, turning his blue eyes towards Genevieve’s same colored eyes. “I know. I’m nervous too.”

“Do you really think this is Blight?”

It was Carver’s turn to pull up a blade of grass. “I dunno. But last I heard, they are looking for more Grey Wardens to be at Ostagar. You know… Just in case.”

Genevieve shook her head, frowning. “What are the odds you think…?”

“I don’t know,” Carver muttered, a little annoyed. “But we’ll be fine. There are Grey Wardens there.”

“Maybe if, you know, it is a Blight, we should get mother and Bethany somewhere else…”

“Evie, I swear if you keep talking like this…”

“Like _what_ , Carver?!” Genevieve narrowed her gaze on her brother, who was equally as angrily gazing back. “What did I say so wrong? For wanting safety for mother and Bethany?”

“It’s not all on _you_ ,” Carver spat. “You think I don’t care? Because you’re acting like I don’t give a shit.”

Genevieve said nothing, her chest heaving with a flood of adrenaline and anger. When she said nothing, Carver continued, though his tone had softened a little. “I just want you to be a little more optimistic and put some trust in the Wardens who are here to protect us. It’s not like they’ve evacuated Lothering.”

By now, the sun had fully set, and the first glimmer of stars had appeared in the open sky. Genevieve rubbed her temple before standing up. “We should head back. It’s dark and mother will have made supper.”  
“In a few minutes,” Carver said. “You go on ahead. Tell mother I’ll be home shortly. I’ve an errand to run before it’s too late.”

With a fleeting smile, Genevieve descended the hill and made her way towards their tiny home, on the very outskirts of Lothering. The lights of the city illuminated her path. Though it was night, the small village was alive with people traveling to and from the tavern, the same people who would rather drink their troubles away than pray at the Chantry. _Their Maker is the ale_ , Genevieve thought as she passed the already crowded tavern.

It wasn’t too much longer before Genevieve was swinging open the door to their home. She was greeted by the pleasant smell of roasted potatoes, carrots and beef stew. She smiled to herself as she closed the door behind her, barely getting a step onto the hearth near the door before Bethany came out from her bedroom, a grin plastered across her face.

“You’ll never guess who stopped by,” Bethany positively giggled, stepping forward to grab her older sister’s hand. Although she and Carver were twins, she had their late father’s hazel eyes, while the rest of the Hawkes had Leandra’s slate blue. 

Genevieve opened her mouth to answer, but Bethany looked ready to burst. Her voice fell to a hushed, excited whisper. “Do you remember Geoffrey from the market?” Again, Genevieve opened her mouth to answer, but Bethany answered for her. “Of course you do. Well, I was out in back, feeding the chickens, and I came around front of the house and he was standing right there! He wanted to go on a walk on the bridge and ‘marvel at the sights.’”

“Really? Isn’t he the one with the missing front teeth…?” Genevieve lead them both into the kitchen, where Leandra was stirring the delicious stew over the fire. She looked up when her two daughters entered, but otherwise said nothing.

“Well, yeah but how nice is that? When we go to market I barely talk to him!”

Genevieve rolled her eyes, grinning. “He’s not good enough for our Bethany. Even if he did have all his teeth.”

“Evie,” Leandra said, putting the wooden spoon down on the table. “Where’s Carver? He’ll miss supper.”

“He said he had an errand,” Genevieve said, running her fingers through her hair. Carver was right – it had to be cut before they go. “He said he’ll be home in time for supper, don’t worry.”

“Well, alright,” Leandra said, though she didn’t quite sound like she believed him. “Go wash up, the stew will be ready in a few minutes.”

In the small bathroom that was shared amongst the four of them, Genevieve gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was long, curly and tawny brown, and fell past her elbows. She was proud of the length of her hair, having been growing it out for several years. During her last several stations, she was able to get away with putting her hair in a bun and hiding it under her helmet. _It’s too long for that now_ , she thought with a frown.

From a basin, she scooped the cool water in her hands and splashed it on her face, rubbing the apples of her cheeks in the process. She’ll have to wake up extra early tomorrow, so she could partake in the Chant before they go. Though her family wasn’t particularly religious, she found comfort in the Maker after the passing of her father. Maybe in another life she could have devoted herself to the Chantry.

By the same supper was served, Carver was indeed back from his errand, and the four of them sat and ate dinner like it was just another night. With full bellies, one by one they went off to bed. The three siblings shared a bedroom, with the twins on bunk beds and Genevieve left with a hard, old mattress in the corner of the room. Most of the furnishings in their home are old. She couldn’t complain, though; others had it much worse, and she was fortunate to have what she had.

\-------------------

It was a restless night, and Genevieve groaned against the morning sun and rubbed her eyes. Her dreams had been plagued with visions of darkspawn and corpses rotting in the streets of Lothering, flies feeding off their decaying flesh. _It’s just a dream Evie_ , she thought to herself as she sat up in bed and blinked into the light. She turned to look at Carver, but found his and Bethany’s beds empty.

“Shit,” she exhaled, jumping out of bed. What time was it?!

She skidded into the living room, strapping the last of her padded armor on right as Leandra was emerging from the kitchen. “Mother,” she exclaimed through heavy pants, “did I miss—?”

“Relax dear,” Leandra smiled. “Bethany is out back fetching water from the well, and Carver took the liberty of packing the provisions for you two and is waiting for you at the Chantry. He… Understands how much that means to you.”

Genevieve released the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding, smiling. “Thanks mother,” she said softly, sauntering into her mother’s outstretched arms. “I’ll miss you two. So much.”

“I’d ask you to write, but knowing you and your brother, you’ll both be too busy,” Leandra said, rubbing the top of Genevieve’s hair. “I love you both. Bethany and I will be fine, and we’ll be here when you get back. Please be safe.”

“I always am mother,” Genevieve said softly, doing her best to hold back unshed tears. “I love you too.”

Leandra kissed the top of her head before holding Genevieve’s face and looking into her eyes. “Now go on. The caravan is arriving soon.”

Genevieve nodded, and turned and left the house before her mother could see the tears falling down her face. She went towards the well, but couldn’t find Bethany anywhere. She was about to go inside to ask her mother if she was sure that’s where Bethany is when she saw a small crowd gathered around the steps of the Chantry. She was going to be late for the Chant. She’d find Bethany after.

Thankfully she stopped crying before she reached the steps of the Chantry, where she saw Carver sitting. He got up as soon as she saw her. “I think they’ve already started the, er, Chant,” he said, motioning towards the imposing wooden door. “Better get inside.”

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked as she reached for the door handle.

“I’ll wait here. Somehow I don’t think the Maker would appreciate me in there.”

She cast her eyes down momentarily before nodding and entering the building. As Carver had said, the Chant had already begun, so she hung in the back. The morning’s Chant was from _Threnodies_.

> There in the depths of the earth they dwelled,  
>  Spreading their taint as plague, growing in number  
>  Until they were a multitude.  
>  And together they searched ever deeper  
>  Until they found their prize,  
>  Their god, their betrayer.  
> 

  
Genevieve felt a wash of uneasiness grow in the pit of her stomach. _How fitting_ , she thought. The morning’s Chant is about darkspawn and the Blight. She rubbed her arms before kneeling and closing her eyes through the rest of the Chant, focusing instead on her prayers rather than the nagging thoughts of darkspawn.

She was the first to leave once the Chant had ended, finding Carver exactly where he had left her. He looked up at her, noticeable dark circles under his eyes, before snorting.

“What’s so funny?” Genevieve asked quizzically.

“Your hair,” he chuckled. “You were supposed to cut it.”

“Oh,” she said softly, plucking up a few strands of hair. She looked up to see Carver at her side, sword in his hand. “Wh—”

He gathered her hair in his fist and the blade of his sword gently pressing against the strands. “Are you ready Evie?” he asked frankly.

She gulped. She trusted Carver. “Y-yes. Go ahead.” Still, she closed her eyes, holding her breath.

With one cut, she felt the breeze on the back of her bare neck. She immediately reached up to investigate the foreign feeling when she realized he cut it much short. Her hair now fell directly below her chin. “Andraste’s tits,” she cried, putting a hand to her mouth in surprise.

“It’ll grow back,” Carver said flatly, kicking the pile of hair off the steps. “The caravan came while you were in the Chantry too. It’s time to go. I already loaded it with our things.”

Her mind was still buzzing with the realization that she just lost most of her hair before it sunk in that it was time to leave. “Wait, I didn’t say goodbye to Bethany,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. She didn’t try to hide them this time.

Carver motioned to a stack of crates near a wagon, and to Genevieve’s surprise, Bethany stood near them, trying to remain inconspicuous in a heavy brown hooded cloak.

“Bethany,” Genevieve breathed when she came up to her sister. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to say goodbye.”

“I wouldn’t have let you leave without saying goodbye,” Bethany smiled through puffy red eyes. She looked her sister up and down, then blinked. “What happened to your hair?”

Genevieve scratched at the back of her head, putting on a big smile. “Carver, uh, relieved me of it. It had to come off anyway.”

“Yes, but it looks like it was just… hacked off,” Bethany frowned. “You could have at least let me try to make it look a bit nicer.”

“I would have but I just don’t have the time,” Genevieve said sadly. She stepped forward and embraced her little sister, holding her tightly to her chest. “I love you Bethany. I’ll miss you.”

“I love you too Evie,” Bethany quivered, hugging her tightly and resting her cheek on Genevieve’s shoulder. She sniffed, and Genevieve could tell she was trying not to cry. “Mother and I will be okay. Okay? And when the battle is over, and the darkspawn are defeated, you and Carver will come back, and I’ll make your favorite cookies.”

“The ones with the chocolate flakes?”

“Just the ones,” Bethany smiled, pulling away and holding Genevieve’s shoulders. “I know you’ll both be okay.” Bethany glanced sideways at the caravan, before lowering her voice. “And if, uh, we have any… Templar problems… Mother said not to expect a letter back, but I will write to you, I promise.”

“Please,” Genevieve smiled sadly. She kissed Bethany on the cheek just as Carver climbed into the caravan. “That’s my queue. I’ll see you soon.”

“The Hawkes stick together,” Bethany called as Genevieve made her way towards the caravan.

“Always,” Genevieve said over her shoulder, waving.

She climbed in the back of the caravan, sitting on the seat opposite of Carver. Neither of them said a word as the caravan accelerated away from Lothering, kicking up dust in its wake. Through the dust, Genevieve could make out the faint outline of Bethany, standing in the middle of the road.

Carver broke the silence. “It’ll be a couple days trip, but not long. The trip south to Ostagar is supposedly really beautiful.”

“Right,” Genevieve muttered, looking out the back of the caravan. Lothering was no longer in sight, and they were traveling south along the Imperial Highway, with nothing in their view but trees and rocks, with the occasional deer.

They didn’t speak to each other the rest of the day, and in two days’ time, the pair were at Ostagar with the main of the army. They were each fitted with a brilliant set of armor, with Genevieve opting for a sword and shield versus Carver’s giant broadsword. He needed both hands to wield it and Genevieve preferred a shield to protect herself more reliably (and, in a pinch, she could hit someone with it).

The Grey Wardens kept to their own end of the camp, and Genevieve couldn’t help but be immensely curious. There was a rumor going around that the newest Warden was a mage from the Circle. She vaguely remembered something her mother told her about a relative who was in the Circle, though the details escaped her at the time.

It wasn’t long before they were called in a brink of a storm to battle against the darkspawn. Carver was in a different unit, though he wasn’t too far away.

Before they had taken their positions in their respective unit, Carver had met with Genevieve in the rain. He laid down his sword before grabbing Genevieve’s shoulder. “Evie,” he called over the thunder. “In a few minutes we’ll be in the heat of battle. And I just wanted to let you know that I love you sister, and after this fight is over, the drinks are on me.” He grinned widely, and Genevieve giggled and smiled back at him.

But that day would never come, and before long they would find themselves running for their lives, away from the bloodbath of Ostagar. The rain washed away the blood on Genevieve’s face, coming from the deep gash that was on her left cheek. The last thing they heard was a voice cry out, “The King is dead! He’s dead!” Everyone scattered. They tripped over the bodies of their fallen comrades, and slipped on blood that had seeped into mud. All they focused on was escaping, and heading back to Leandra and Bethany. It was a Blight. They had to leave Lothering.

Neither of them knew it at the time, but that day would change their lives forever.


	2. Only Then I Am Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve and company are on their way to Kirkwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! This is really a filler for the next chapter, but this is, surprisingly, one of my favorite points in the game. I took the dialogue straight from the game and tweaked what didn't fit. Enjoy.

Life has this funny way of putting you back in your place. It has a way of correcting natural wrongs, even those you perceive as truths. It has a way of changing your life, and you may not know it at the time, but everything works out. Death… Birth… It all flows, like a sparkling river through the forest. It knows where to go and when to turn. You just need to learn to trust it.

Trusting it, and the Maker, was the last thing on Genevieve’s mind as she spent two weeks in the hold of a ship. Carver and his death haunted every minute of her mind, from the hum of the day to the darkest reaches of her dreams. What’s worse is mother’s _blame_ for their loss rested solely on Genevieve’s shoulders. Fair? Maybe. She was the oldest, and she promised mother that they’d all be okay. She didn’t mean to, but she lied to her mother, Bethany, and herself when the ogre plucked Carver into the air like a piece of paper. She knew she’d never forgive herself.

Along the way, the Hawkes had met Aveline Vallen and her husband, a templar named Ser Wesley Vallen. Unfortunately, Wesley was injured by the darkspawn, and succumbed to the taint. Genevieve remembers watching Aveline put her own husband to the blade, and felt like she’d never have the courage or strength to do that herself. 

Of course, they were also rescued by a shapeshifting dragon, but that’s neither here nor there.

The swaying of the boat brought Genevieve back down to earth. Her eyelids felt heavy as they struggled to open in the dimly lit cabin. The family mabari slept peacefully at her side. All around her, Fereldens were packed together like a bundle of firewood. Mothers held their frightened children to their chests, kissing away the tears on their dirty cheeks. Couples consoled each other and wondered how they would rebuild their lives. And here, amongst the injured and the broken, the Hawkes were quietly mourning the loss of Carver the best way they could, as they sailed across the Waking Sea and to an imposing city called Kirkwall.

When they finally landed on the docks of Kirkwall, Genevieve stumbled out of the boat, the steady ground playing tricks on her mind after such a long voyage. The group of women talked their way into meeting with Gamlen, Leandra’s brother who supposedly owned the family estate and all the wealth to go with it.

Unfortunately, that too turned out to be a lie. The group waited three days for Gamlen to show up (in the Gallows, nonetheless. Bethany certainly wasn’t her usual self) only to learn that he wasn’t how mother remembered him to be.

“Oh, Maker save me,” Gamlen muttered. “Leandra, don’t drop this on me here. I don’t even know if I can help you get in.”

“I’m more concerned about Mother,” pleaded Genevieve. “Can you get her in, at least?”

“No. We stay together!” Leandra said, not looking at her children or Aveline but instead looking solely at Gamlen. Genevieve felt her heart lurch in her chest at the same time she felt Bethany’s hand squeeze hers.

“I was hoping to grease some palms, but the knight-commander’s been cracking down,” Gamlen explained. “We’re gonna need more grease.” Genevieve felt Bethany’s squeeze tighten. She was probably thinking the same thing Genevieve was – knight-commander? What do they have to do with getting into the city?

“But… what about the estate?” Leandra asked. “Surely Father left something when he died.”

“Right, about the estate…” Gamlen’s voice trailed off. “It’s, uh, gone. To settle a debt. I’ve been meaning to write you.”

“Then there’s no hope,” Leandra said sadly, casting her eyes onto the cracked stone walkway.

“Not quite,” Gamlen said quickly. “I know some people who might help… if you’re not too delicate about the company you keep.”

“We don’t have any choice, do we?” Genevieve sighed, scratching absentmindedly at her elbow. “I need to get my family into Kirkwall.”

“I talked to my contacts and I found some people who might be willing to pay your way into the city,” said Gamlen, moving closer to the group of women. “The catch is you and your sister will have to work off the debt. For a year.”

Genevieve blinked, but Leandra said what was on her mind. “A year!”

“It’s the best I could do!” Gamlen explained, trying not to look at Leandra’s piercing gaze. “Trust me when I say a bunch of refugees won’t get a better option anywhere else.”

Genevieve exhaled, frustrated and exhausted. Still, she tried to retain a positive attitude. “I’m sure we’ll be free and clear before we know it.”

“I managed to convince my contacts to come to the Gallows to meet you personally,” Gamlen continued. “Meeran heads up the mercenary company, the Red Iron. They’re looking for recruits. Athenril… I guess you might call her a smuggler. Either one of them can help you. All you need to do is find them in the courtyard and convince them you’re worth the trouble.”

“What do you think about this, Bethany?” Genevieve turned to her sister.

“We’ve come this far,” Bethany reflected. “I don’t care who we work for, as long as it means we don’t have to go back.”

Genevieve folded her arms across her chest. Working for a mercenary company or a smuggler left a sour taste in her mouth. Just weeks ago, she was a soldier at Ostagar, and now she’s a refugee, begging for sanctuary. Her younger brother was dead. And now she’s told she either needs to be a mercenary or work as a smuggler, both things she was morally against.

Still, her family was counting on her. There was no time for second guesses, regrets or emotions. “What kind of man is this Meeran?” Genevieve asked with her arms folded across her chest.

“He’s a hired sword. What do you expect him to be like?” Gamlen stated flatly. “I wouldn’t bring him home for dinner or anything, but he’s got a decent reputation. I wouldn’t have asked him if I thought he’d cross you.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes at ‘decent reputation,’ but who knows what is considered decent in Kirkwall. “How dangerous is this smuggler’s work?” she asked.

“Well, it won’t be pretty working for her,” Gamlen said plainly. “She’s a pretty small fish compared to some of the other thieves’ guilds around here. But she’s tough, she’s fair and she never deals in slaves or flesh.” _I suppose that’s something_ , Genevieve thought.

Genevieve let out a huge sigh. “Let’s find them and see what they have to say,” she said, mainly to Bethany and Aveline.

“Oh Gamlen, I don’t know about this,” Leandra said, heartbroken.

“It’s a lot of coin, Leandra,” Gamlen explained earnestly. “Don’t go expecting our name to carry the kind of weight it used to.”

“And what of me?” Aveline spoke up. “I will not allow others to incur debts of my behalf.”

“Can’t see that it makes a difference,” Gamlen chuckled, eyeing the orange-haired warrior. “You look like a lady who can pull her own weight.”

“Then you’ll come with us,” Leandra declared, and Genevieve could almost feel the air of a noble shine through with those five words.

“I… have no real option,” Aveline said softly. “Thank you.”

With that, the three women were off to find Meeran or Athenril. Genevieve pulled them aside once they were out of earshot of Gamlen and Mother. “Alright ladies. Smuggler or mercenary. Personally, I feel like I would be best suited as a mercenary, due to my combat training that I’ve had. Bethany?”

“Smuggler,” she said quietly. “This place is crawling with templars. The more I can get out of the public eye, the better.”

Genevieve nodded. Understandable. “How about you Aveline?”

She shook her head. “Oh no. This isn’t my decision.”

“It is,” Bethany said. “You’re with us now, whether you like it now.” She flashed a dazzling smile.

Aveline rolled her shoulders, the shield of her late husband secured tightly on her back. “I… suppose I would be more comfortable with the mercenaries rather than with a smuggler.”

“I’m sorry Bethany,” Genevieve said, looking sadly at her sister.

“It’s fine,” Bethany smiled. “It’s only for a little while anyway. Like you said, it’ll be over before we know it.”

There were several people in the Gallows. Some of them Genevieve recognized as obvious Circle mages, walking about in the same colored robes as the next and with funny looking hats. Gamlen gave them a description of each “benefactor,” but between the refugees, mages, templars, and regular city-folk, Genevieve felt a bit bewildered.

She eventually spotted a man whom she believed matched the given description, and approached him cautiously. “Meeran?”

He was an older man, much older than Genevieve would have thought for the head of a mercenary group. He walked towards her, his eyes snaking over her legs, her arms, and finally to her face. “And you must be Hawke?” he asked, before standing close enough to her that she could smell the stale ale coming off his breath. “Nice.”

Genevieve’s expression hardened, becoming a shield even stronger than the one on her back. She stiffened her stance, folding her arms squarely across her chest, keeping her eyes on his greasy face.

Whether or not he noticed her shift in stance, he didn’t comment on that, only to continue his speech as he took a few steps away from her. “Your uncle talked up a storm about you. He better not be blowing more smoke out his ass.”

“I’d like to learn more about you, first,” Genevieve said bitterly, not lowering her arms.

“Right. You’re not a Marcher like your uncle,” Meeran said suspiciously. “The Red Iron is well known in these parts. We pick who we work for and keep our noses clean. But anyone screws with us, we mess them up. Make sense?”

“Makes sense,” Aveline agreed. Genevieve got the strangest feeling she was trying to calm her down.

“I never pictured myself as the mercenary type,” Bethany said from behind Aveline. But there’s nothing Genevieve could do about it now; they all agreed earlier that this was the route they were going to take.

“Getting us into the city will take a lot of coin,” Genevieve pointed out.

Meeran chuckled, rubbing his nose. “Did I mention the Red Iron gets paid pretty well? Not to mention your uncle said your sister’s a mage. We’re willing to pay for that.”

That part took her by surprise, and she found herself gripping the hilt of her sword without realizing it. Bethany made a sound from behind Aveline. “Apparently Uncle Gamlen likes to talk,” Genevieve spat, her blood boiling under her armor.

“You stick with us, you’ll be safe. For the year, at least,” Meeran reasoned. For some reason, Genevieve believed him.

Genevieve turned towards her companies, an unspoken word passing between the three of them. Then, she turned towards Meeran. “I’m ready to prove myself,” she said.

Turns out, Meeran sent the group to kill a noble in the Gallows named Friedrich, who gave them bad information about… something. Genevieve learned fast not to ask questions. They did as they were told, though Genevieve could see the expression of disapproval on Aveline’s face as she cleaned the blood off her blade.

They returned to Meeran with the news. “Good,” he said, rubbing his fist and smiling. “May the bloody vultures feast on his corpse and shit him into the ocean.” Genevieve raised her eyebrow, but Meeran continued. “Welcome to the Red Iron. Tell your uncle I’m making the arrangements now.”

They met up with Leandra and Gamlen told them the news. “Excellent,” Gamlen said. “I’ll speak to Meeran and see when the bribes can be made. Wait here.”

Genevieve reached down and scratched their mabari affectionately behind the ear before Bethany spoke. “Then we made it,” she said, relief in her voice. “The voyage is over.”

“No more running for our lives unless we really have to,” Genevieve chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

“If only Carver were here with us,” Leandra said sadly. _Mood = not lightened_ , Genevieve thought.

“And Wesley,” Aveline added, equally as upset.

“Let’s just see what happens,” Genevieve said, looking to each of them in turn. “We have a long year ahead of us.”


	3. She will make straight your paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Genevieve's first meeting with Sebastian.

And so began their year in the Red Iron. Meeran gave the girls a day to settle into their hole in Lowtown before sending them on their first mission. They started off simple: kill some slavers who had kidnapped the child of one of their contacts. Most of their missions were confined to Darktown or Lowtown. By the time they got home, they were both too tired to do anything else, and it was a month in before Genevieve realized they’ve never even seen Hightown. It was also around this time that Aveline found an actual job as a guardsman in the City Guard, and left the Red Iron.

“I can get you in Hawke,” Aveline said on her last day with the Iron, swinging her enormous templar shield on her back. “Are you sure you want to stay here? With Meeran?”

“Bethany needs me,” Genevieve smiled. “Besides, I don’t think I’m cut out for the life of a guardsman. It’s…”

“Too much like being a soldier?” Aveline finished her sentence for her and nodded. “I get it Genevieve. I understand.”

“Thank you Aveline,” Genevieve gave her a parting hug. “And please. Call me Evie. Everyone else does.”

When Genevieve did find time for herself, she lit a candle on the dirty floor, and closed her eyes and prayed to the Maker for a way to improve their living situation. If not for her and Bethany, but for her mother, who worked so hard in life that it seemed unfair that she ended up here. Mother told her stories about her grandparents, and she could tell that the way she had said goodbye all those years ago weighted heavy on her conscious. Whenever the flame flickered, Genevieve was reminded of Carver’s spirit, and she’d wind up on the floor with tears streaming down her face.

It was about two months into their service that Gamlen cleared his throat one morning over some eggs. “Yes, uh, Genevieve?”

“Evie,” she corrected him, toying with a gooey part of the egg with her fork. “Did you need something Uncle Gamlen?”

“I know that you light your candles and pray every night,” he said hastily, sitting down on a seat that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since before she was born. “I find the wax drippings all over the floor.”

“Well, it’s not like that’s the worst thing on the floor,” she shrugged, scooping some egg into her mouth.

Gamlen frowned. “It’s still my house and my floor. Anyway, in case you didn’t know, there’s a Chantry in Hightown. You can go there and do your… thing.”

“I already know about that Chantry,” Genevieve said, setting her plate down on the table. “It’s just that I don’t have any time to go there in the morning. The Chant starts at 7:00 a.m. and by then I’m already ass-deep in bodies and blood.”

“It was just a suggestion,” Gamlen said through his teeth. “Sorry for bringing it up since you seem to know everything already.”

Genevieve raised an eyebrow in confusion at the odd outburst, but before she could comment, Gamlen had already left to his room. 

She spent the next few moments in comfortable solitude. Bethany and Mother went to the market to buy bread with Griffin, the family mabari, and Gamlen just went to his room in a toddler-induced huff. She stretched out on the chair and, in a careful balancing act, leaned back on the legs so she was on two instead of four. If Leandra was here right now, she’d be scolded and hit with a spoon. 

She smiled to herself before realizing that she had time now to go to the Chantry. Surprisingly, Meeran hadn’t summoned them this morning, and although the Chant is long over, she could still marvel at the statues and imagery. _It’s probably ten times bigger than the Chantry in Lothering_ , she thought. Thinking of Lothering was painful, so she quickly pushed that thought aside. She ran her fingers through her messy curls and grabbed a small dagger that could be discreetly tucked away before setting out towards Hightown.

Despite having lived in Kirkwall for a few months now, the streets still dazzled her like a maze, and she found herself getting confused in the bustle of the crowd. She wasn’t accustomed to city life, but she knew she’d have to learn sooner rather than later. Everywhere she looked, people cast their judgmental gaze on her, and Genevieve pulled her arms tighter to her chest. Her Ferelden clothes were a dead giveaway that she was a filthy refugee, dirtying up their precious city.

When she finally arrived on the doorstop of the magnificent building, adorned on either side by the largest, grandest statues she’s ever seen, her fingers hesitated on the door handle. She knew the Chantry welcomed all, whether they be the poorest beggar or the richest magistrate, but she couldn’t help but wonder if the disdain for refugees also extended to those committed to the Maker in the Chantry. She swallowed hard, before finally opening the door.

Her eyes immediately shone upward towards the pair of statues at either side of the door, their gold metallic sheen glistening like a thousand stars in the sunlight that shone brightly through the oversized windows. Directly in front of those windows was the largest statue of Andraste, the Maker’s Bride, that Genevieve had ever seen. As she made her way farther into the interior, she slowly spun around, taking in every sunburst banner, every detail of the stone walls, and every wisp of smoke rising from the burners. 

As she approached the base of the statue of Andraste, she let her eyes take in the full glory of the Maker’s Bride. Her eyes swept over every detail, and when she got to Her face, Genevieve couldn’t help but feel… sad. Unbelievably sad. Everything she’s been through the past two months was real. It is real. Ostagar, the loss of their King, the loss of their home, the loss of the Wardens, the Blight, the death of Carver, Mother’s anger at Genevieve’s failure, their living situation, her line of work as a mercenary, Mother’s pain, Bethany’s fear… 

“O… oh,” she squeaked, burying her face in the palm of her hands. Heavy tears poured down her cheeks, and she sobbed openly in her hands. With each tear, she felt a weight lifted off her chest, but she also felt utterly alone. She wanted nothing more than to see Carver again, in front of her, with her own two eyes.

“ _’Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you. In my arms lies Eternity.’_ ”

Genevieve swung her head around towards the voice, and saw a man standing near one of the staircases leading to the upper balcony. She immediately recognized him as at least an affirmed of the Chantry, due to his rose and gold colored robes. His accent told her that he wasn’t from here, but she couldn’t place where he could be from. He stepped forward towards her, and she immediately wiped her cheeks on the back of her sleeve. “I’m... I’m sorry. For blubbering.”

“Don’t be,” he said simply, putting his arms behind his back and turning his gaze towards the impressive statue. “I’m glad you find solace in the Maker; to turn to the Maker when most needed.” He turned his head towards her, and Genevieve was struck by his blue eyes. Not the same shade of blue as Mother, Carver and herself, but a more vibrant shade. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before. Are you new to the town?”

“S-sort of, yes,” Genevieve said through sniffles.

“And, if you don’t mind me asking, why are you crying?”

Genevieve cast her eyes towards the stone floor. “I… Don’t know where to begin.”

“Start from the beginning,” he said, smiling. “Only if you’re comfortable telling me. Sometimes, it’s painful to speak. But it’s the only way the wound can be lanced.”

Genevieve opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. She looked at the man, who was eyeing her curiously, but with the utmost patience. “Are you trying to get me to confess?”

“It’s not a confession,” he chuckled. “I am not yet a Brother of the Chantry, so I cannot hear confessions, though I plan to take my vows within the next three months. If you wish to confess, I can find someone suitable.”

“No, no… I was just wondering, that’s all,” she exhaled. _Stop sounding like an idiot in the Maker’s home._ “In case you haven’t figured it out by my clothing, I’m a refugee. From Ferelden. I came to Kirkwall about two months ago.”

“I see,” he mused. “There are many refugees in Kirkwall, but forgive me, I thought they had stopped letting refugees into city walls more than two months ago. Have you family here?”

Genevieve’s cheeks flushed a bright scarlet color. She looked away, before more tears pooled into her eyes. When she turned to face him again, they were flowing freely down her scarred cheeks. “I need forgiveness. From the Maker. But I don’t know if that’s possible,” she spoke quickly, as if she was afraid she would be struck down at any minute. “I had no choice and—”

“Calm down,” he said, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. “The Maker has room at His side for every soul.” Once he was satisfied that his words soothed her, even only for a little, he continued. “The Maker understands the need for survival. Even if it’s through… shady means.”

“I kill,” she said frankly, staring straight into his eyes. She started speaking frantically. “I work for a mercenary company and I kill. My mother, my sister and I had nothing when we came here, and we were offered passage into the city if my sister and I work off the debt for a year. I have prayed every night to the Maker to feel some sort of… peace with myself and nothing ever comes.”

“A murder committed under duress is a sin on the one who ordered it, not the one whose hands carried out the deed,” he said, gripping her shoulder.

“It was still my choice.”

“But is it truly?”

Genevieve didn’t have an answer to that. He lowered his hand from her shoulder, and she took a breath to steady her emotions. She quickly changed the subject. “Forgive me for just… laying this all on you. Surely you didn’t wake up this morning thinking you were going to console a crybaby.”

He chuckled. “It’s alright, I assure you.” He paused, before adding, “You mentioned a sister. Does your sister feel the same as you do?”

“You mean about my feelings or the Chantry?”

“Do you talk to her about your feelings at all?”

Genevieve shrugged. “She… has enough on her plate to deal with. I don’t want to be selfish by loading this all on her.”

“Does she share her burdens with you?”

“She’s shared her burdens with me her whole life,” she snorted. When she noticed the man raised an eyebrow, she explained. “I mean, she’s my sister and all so…” She quickly realized she sounded stupid and should probably shut up. She diverted her gaze to the potted plant behind his shoulder.

The man didn’t raise the issue any further. “I see.” He paused, before adding, “I apologize for asking.”

She looked back at him. He was standing with his hands folded behind his back, his eyes fixated up at the statue of Andraste. From his profile, Genevieve could make out the man’s distinctive features, including his chiseled nose and russet-toned hair. He looked very young, and Genevieve had to urge to ask more about him – where is he from? What’s his name? Why did he want to become a Brother?

She was about to open her mouth when a large _clash_ came from somewhere in one of the back rooms, followed by the sound of a bunch of female voices yelling.

The man shook his head. “Maker it’s always something… Thank you for talking to me.” Genevieve looked back towards him. His eyes looked serious. “I trust you will find the comfort you seek in the Maker. You’re always welcome here.” With that, he turned on his heel and jogged towards one of the back doors. Genevieve tilted her head to try and get a view of the commotion, but the door swung shut before she had the chance.

She was, once again, alone. 

Her gaze swept once more over the figure of Andraste. Wife of the Maker. _Slave._ Genevieve cocked her head to one side as she mulled over the thought, her eyelids suddenly heavy from the unexpected crying. If Andraste could rise from slave to war leader, then she too could get out of this shithole.

“Andraste preserve me,” she muttered, clasping her hands together. She clenched her eyes shut before kissing her praying fists. “Andraste give me strength. With your guidance I know I can do it. I must do it. I _will_ do it.”

She exhaled slowly before opening her eyes to the Bride of the Maker. It was later in the morning, and the light from the stained-glass windows reflected off the stoned floor in brilliant shades of purple and red. Bowing her head once, she turned towards the heavy doors. 

Before she opened the door, she took one last look at the interior of the Chantry. She couldn’t be for certain, but she was sure that she saw the upcoming Brother in the corner, watching her. 

She smiled to herself before swinging open the door to her reality.


End file.
